


Lonely Sometimes

by thesadchicken



Category: DD9 - Fandom, Deep Dish Nine - Fandom, Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Deep Dish Nine, M/M, everyone is human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:50:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3758527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when an enemy turns into a friend? A story about the manager of the french restaurant "Chez Picard" and the infamous restaurant critic Q. Sequel to "Something Frankly Provocative".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lonely Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the Deep Dish Nine Universe, and inspired by the work of LadyYateXel and Tinsnip. In this universe everyone is human.
> 
> Once again, I have to thank my brilliant friend Susi ('captainslock' on tumblr, go check out her blog!) for beta-reading this for me. She's amazing.

Jean-Luc Picard was laughing whole-heartedly, his head thrown back against his chair, his hands shaking on the table and making their coffees lurch in their mugs. Q was looking at him, smile widening, eyes glowing in the dim light of the coffee shop.

“Why, Jean-Luc, I believe this is the first time I make you laugh.”

Picard straightened in his seat, still gasping for breath and grinning broadly.

“It’s been a while since I’ve laughed like that,” he admitted, reaching for his coffee.

“Really?” Q asked in mock surprise, leaning over the table and adding in a conspiratorial tone; “I thought you wouldn’t be able to appreciate any of _my_ jokes, what with Mr. Data’s comedic talents. Remember that stand-up show you allowed him to perform one night? Brilliant!”

Picard suppressed a giggle and took a sip of his coffee.

“What was the punchline of that joke?” Q continued mockingly; “’Okay, you're ugly too’? And then he actually went: ‘Badoom Boom’!”

Jean-Luc almost choked on his coffee.

“You’re despicable,” he laughed, shaking his head.

“Thank you,” Q replied proudly.

“Though I’m not sure I like the way you make fun of my staff.”

“Hypocrite! You were laughing your head off a second ago. But if it bothers you all that much I’ll stop.”

“Hmm,” Jean-Luc huffed consentingly, blowing on his coffee.

This was very strange. He was sitting with Quentin Tutto in a coffee shop, affectionately making fun of the people he loved most, like he and the restaurant critic were old friends. And the strangest thing about it all was that it felt so comfortable. He had lowered his shields; let himself open to whatever Q was planning to shoot at him –which happened to be harmless jokes, how odd- and yes, it was probably all wrong but it felt safe. _What I am doing here?_

“Wait, are you drinking something other than Earl Grey tea?” Q said, interrupting his thoughts.

“I don’t terribly like coffee, but I can tolerate it.”

“I see. The way you’re tolerating me right now?”

Picard looked up at the other man. He was smiling nonchalantly but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited, staring back at Jean-Luc. _What is he expecting from me? What can I say?_

“I don’t know how to answer that,” he said, turning away from Q’s piercing brown eyes.

“I know what you’re thinking, Jean-Luc. ‘What does he want? What is he doing?’ I thought you wanted to get to know me better,” the taller man said, his tone accusatory.

“I am trying,” Jean-Luc sighed; “but you must understand it’s difficult.”

It was getting irritating. _How can he expect me to forget everything that has ever happened between us and start over? I’ve known him for years without really knowing him, I have to get used to this. But he doesn’t want to be patient._

“Why?” Q questioned edgily; “All you have to do is… Ugh. I hate default ringtones!”

Jean-Luc’s cell-phone had begun ringing, interrupting whatever Q had to say. He got it out of his coat pocket and checked the caller’s name. Beverly. _Merde_.

“I’m sorry, I really should get this,” he said, gesturing to his phone, and Q nodded.

He got up and walked away from their table. Rubbing a hand over his forehead, he inhaled deeply and picked up.

“Yes, Beverly.”

“Jean-Luc, I was wondering if you were home,” his friend’s cheerful voice asked.

“Err –no, actually, I’m not.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly surprised.

_Do I really spend that much time bundled up alone between four walls?_

“I’m at Nebula Coffee,” he explained further, wincing as he waited for an answer.

“Oh, alright,” Beverly replied uncertainly.

Oh God, this wasn’t getting any easier. _Just say it already._

“With Quentin.”

There was a fairly long uninterrupted silence at the other end of the line and Picard wondered if she had thought it was a prank and hung up on him.

“Quentin Tutto?” she finally asked, disbelievingly.

He hadn’t told Beverly about Q –at least not yet; he was still convincing himself he would have eventually told her. And there hadn’t been much to tell anyway; apart from a first outing at the museum, which turned out to be a failure, there had been two coffee shop meetings and a few impromptu encounters. Nothing to get excited over.

“Yes, him,” he answered, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Oh, well in that case –see you tomorrow at work. Um, have a nice evening,” she said hesitantly, then hung up and left Jean-Luc staring at his phone for a few seconds before heading back to their table. Q was sipping his coffee and smiled at Picard when he sat down, threw his phone on the table next to his half-empty mug and apologized again.

“No need,” Q brushed his apology off before adding, peering at him curiously; “It wasn’t long. Who was it?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Jean-Luc teased, though he suspected it sounded a little drier than he intended.

“It was Beverly Crusher, wasn’t it?” Q insisted in a sing-song voice; “Frankly I’ve never understood what’s really happening between the two of you.”

“As I said, it’s none of your business,” Picard repeated, jaw clenched.

“She’s obviously into you. Did you notice the way she stares when she thinks you’re not looking?”

“Q, that’s enough,” Jean-Luc warned him.

“And yet here you are, having coffee with _moi_ ,” Q mused, grinning smugly.

“I’m starting to regret it,” Jean-Luc mumbled, getting up.

“Where are you going?” Q asked, eyes wide, his expression changing to a slightly panicked one.

“To the toilet,” Jean-Luc mumbled, tugging at his shirt and walking away angrily.

He suddenly felt awkward and out of place in this cozy coffee shop. It felt too warm, too dark, too soothing, with the humming of conversations around him and the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the windows. He shouldn’t have felt comfortable in the first place; he shouldn’t have let his walls down… He pushed the bathroom door open and rushed to the sink, rubbing cold water over his face. Beverly’s call had brought back troubling thoughts concerning Q. After all he had done, after all those days spent wishing he’d never see him again, Jean-Luc was now sharing coffee with him… and for a moment, he had been enjoying it. That thought in particular terrified him. He looked up from the sink and into the mirror. He was used to thinking that the man staring back at him was controlled, composed and rigid in his principles. He prided himself in the knowledge that he wasn’t one to give up easily. Some called it stubbornness; he called it prudence, precaution, strength of will. Over the years, he had worked hard to counter all of Q’s attacks, to win the war. He hadn’t given up and closed the restaurant like Quentin had suggested on his very first visit. He had fought not only for himself, but for his staff. _When had it become so personal?_ He’d think about it, but for the moment there was little he could do except walk back to their table and act normal. He took a deep breath, flattened the wrinkled fabric around the neck of his shirt and headed back to where Q was sitting, yawning and distractedly copying the beat of the song playing in the background by tapping his fingers on the table. Jean-Luc sat down and stared at his own hands.

“Oh, you’re back,” Q remarked sarcastically; “I barely noticed your absence. By the way, I took the liberty of changing your ringtone.”

Picard started, reaching across the table to grab his phone.

“You… how did you know what the password is?” he asked, taken aback.

“Oh please,” Q snorted, brushing away the question with a movement of his hand; “’GreyEarlTea’? Are you really that obsessed?”

“Alright, you’re very clever,” Jean-Luc replied, feeling rather annoyed; “but I don’t appreciate people poking their noses into my private affairs.”

“All I did was change the ringtone,” Q protested.

“Is that really all you did?” Picard raised his eyebrows distrustfully.

“You don’t think I went looking into your pictures or messages?”

“It doesn’t matter. In any case, you shouldn’t have touched my phone.”

Q sighed dramatically and crossed his arms.

“Forget it,” he said, and Jean-Luc assumed that meant ‘sorry’.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, looking outside the windows to avoid eye contact. The rain had stopped. Picard had an idea.

“Q, this coffee shop is getting a little stuffy, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” Q eyed him suspiciously.

“Let’s go out,” Picard said, getting up and shrugging into his coat; “Oh, and the coffee’s on you.”

*

They made their way through a few crowded streets –mostly people hurrying to get home before the storm broke again- then into smaller, emptier alleys. It was starting to get dark and the pavement was shining with fresh rain water. As they walked further out of town the cars became scarce and the street lights dimmer.

“This is starting to look like a horror movie,” Q joked; “when are you planning to kill me?”

“We have to get to the abandoned house first,” Jean-Luc played along, smiling.

They kept walking for a while longer, and Jean-Luc was amazed that Q never once asked where they were going. Was it possible he already knew? _How could he? He might be clever but he can’t read minds. Can he?_ Picard glanced at Q and found him looking at him. For a moment their eyes met, then they turned away awkwardly. The streets were now mostly made up of houses with modest gardens and a few stray shops here and there. Picard turned at the angle of a crooked alley and pointed straight ahead.

“And there’s our abandoned house,” he announced.

Q squinted, frowning at the house in question. It was relatively small, with old wooden windows and a creeping plant slithering across the front wall. The paint on the tile was scratched and bleached by the sun and wind, and the garden was a jungle of untrimmed hedges. As they reached the small wooden gates that circled the garden, Q stopped and turned to cast Jean-Luc a falsely worried look.

“Is this the part where you invite to go inside?”

“Exactly.”

Picard slid a hand through the gate to reach for the lock on the other side and pushed it open with a small ticking noise. They walked towards the door, dodging a few outgrown plants that intruded on the path. Jean-Luc  took out a key case from his coat’s pocket. Q clicked his tongue.

“What?” Jean-Luc asked, fumbling for the right key.

“I’m disappointed,” Q answered; “I thought we were breaking into somebody else’s house.”

“Why are you so keen on invading other people’s privacy?” Picard shook his head disapprovingly as he found the right key and started struggling with the key hole.

“We all are, Jean-Luc. But some people think they can disguise it by constantly acting cold and uninterested.”

“I’m not ‘cold and uninterested’.”

“Who said you were?” Q shrugged innocently.

The door finally gave in with a creak. Jean-Luc invited Q in with a polite gesture and the taller man complied. There was a long staircase to the left and a narrow sitting room to the right, where a few books lay in a corner on a low table. The only other furniture in the room were two dark red armchairs, set facing each other around the table near a fireplace. The house smelled of dust and dampness.

“This was my father’s house,” Picard announced, closing the door behind them; “He rarely stayed here; he hated the city. We lived in the country but sometimes he had business here.”

Q fell oddly silent, and Picard suddenly realized that he had said more about himself in the last few seconds than he had in all the years he’d known Q. It hit him then, how strange it was to come here with someone else. This house had been his little secret for a long time; after his father’s death he and his brother Robert hadn’t set foot in it. But when Robert had passed away, Jean-Luc had found comfort in the loneliness of the nearly abandoned house. He had spent hours on one of the armchairs, staring at the emptiness of the other, reading a book or sipping tea. Bringing someone here was like opening a door to the inside of his head. He felt exposed and vulnerable and was already regretting bringing Q here. _What was I thinking?_ He scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably.

“Err- It’s cold in here. I’ll make a fire.”

“I can help,” Q suggested, unexpectedly helpful.

It seemed like the calmness of the old house was making them both tense and uneasy. A little wine wouldn’t hurt.

“No, no that’s fine,” Picard answered, holding his hands up in front of him; “but there’s a bottle of wine in the kitchen, err- just around the corner. Yes, if you could get that?”

*

A few minutes later they were sitting on the armchairs facing each other. A warm fire was crackling in the fireplace, making shadows dance around the room. Jean-Luc took a long sip of his wine before interrupting the uncomfortable silence that reigned over the room.

“You’ve never told me about your family, Q,” he said carefully.

Q set his glass on the table and leaned back in his armchair. For a moment he just stared at the fire and seemed to drift away, then he spoke, his gaze fixated on the flame.

“There’s not much to tell,” he shrugged; “Extended family, big house, too many cousins, lots of fighting… I left all that behind me as soon as I could.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very happy childhood.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Jean-Luc found himself once again strangely drawn to this reserved, almost shy Q. There was something appealing about the mystery of this man, the way he changed from one moment to the other; from arrogant and overconfident to modest and insecure. Or the way expressions flickered on his face like the light of the fire flickered across the room. There was something more to the obnoxiously proud restaurant critic, something hidden underneath and it seemed to be calling to Jean-Luc. Of course, there was also the perverse pleasure he took in being the one in control for a change; having the upper hand didn’t come easy with Q. And for once, maybe he could press his advantage…

“I thought you wanted us to be friends. I thought you wanted us to get to know each other,” he said quietly, waiting for Q’s reaction with a certain apprehension.

The restaurant critic turned to him with a curious look on his face. Picard stared back; he wasn’t sure he had ever seen Q’s eyes shine so brilliantly.

“You know Jean-Luc, you always manage to surprise me. Just when I begin to think you’re as predictable and boring as everyone else, you prove me wrong,” he whispered, his intense gaze locked on Picard’s hazel eyes.

The moment lingered, a delectable mixture of their deep, even breathing and the crackling of the fire. The raw honestly in Q’s words and face soothed Jean-Luc as much as it disturbed him, but he found himself utterly unable to look away from those mesmerizing dark eyes. He played with his almost-empty wine glass, making the liquid swirl before taking a long gulp. Q picked up his own glass and sighed heavily.

“Let’s just say that they’re not very fond of me. My family, I mean. And that’s fine because I wouldn’t spend time with them even if they wanted me to,” he said quickly, finally turning away to stare at the ground.

Jean-Luc nodded slowly.

“I’ve never been very close to my family either. In fact, my mother was the only person who even tried to understand me,” he added carefully, still uneasy about sharing this much information; “My father disapproved of –well, just about anything I did. He wanted me to take over the vineyard with my brother, but I took a different path…”

“Your father is a winegrower?” Q asked, trying to change the subject.

“Oh yes,” Jean-Luc answered humbly, then added, holding up his glass; “what we’re drinking right now is Chateau Picard.”

He reached out for the bottle and read the year, squinting to make out the small numbers in the low light of the fireplace.

“1978. A good year,” he smiled.

Q took another sip and hummed in appreciation.

“You can tell your father that the Continuum magazine’s food and wine critic approves of his wine,” Q said, rolling his glass in his hand.

“He would have been pleased to hear that, had he been alive,” Jean-Luc answered with a tilt of his head.

“Oh, um, I’m sorry,” Q mumbled, lips pursed, eyes wide and eyebrows twisted in a hilariously distressed frown.

Jean-Luc tried to suppress a smile by squeezing his lips shut, but he ended up snorting in a pitiful attempt at avoiding laughter.

“What?” Q asked, confused.

“Nothing –it’s just… your face…” Picard finally gave in and bellowed with laughter.

“Oh, so now there’s something wrong with my face?” the taller man said, amused.

“May I be completely honest?” Jean-Luc managed to reply through his uncontrollable giggling. 

“Please do.”

“Your face is hilarious, and you have the oddest expressions.  I’ve always thought so but you usually make me too angry to laugh about it,” he confessed, pouring himself another glass of wine as he steadied his uneven breathing and avoided a second fit of laughter.

“I don’t think we’ve had enough to drink yet for me to forgive that,” Q smiled, shaking his head.

In an impulsive movement, he reached out and covered Picard’s hand with his, folding them both over the wine bottle. Jean-Luc, thinking he wanted more wine, offered to pour him a glass.

“Thank you,” Q whispered, removing his hand and watching as the dark liquid flowed out of the bottle.

“It’s so… strange,” Picard suddenly said.

“What?” Q asked.

“Sitting here with you. Drinking wine. Everything looks different.”

Q tilted his head to the side, a questioning expression on his face.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jean-Luc smiled; “that’s the exact look that made me laugh earlier.”

“Please forgive me, _mon capitaine_ ,” Q teased.

“What I meant was,” Picard continued, running his free hand over the arm of the chair; “I’ve been here thousands of times, and yet now -with you here- it’s… different.”

“Good or bad?” Q inquired, slightly annoyed at the way his heart raced in his chest.

“Different,” Picard repeated stubbornly.

They sat in silence again, this time avoiding each other’s eyes. After a moment Q picked up a book from the low table.

“Oh no, not Shakespeare,” he moaned.

“What’s wrong with Shakespeare?” Jean-Luc asked indignantly.

“Nothing’s _wrong_ with Shakespeare, but it’s so dull and in-character for you to read it! You like tea and classical music and Shakespeare. You’re starting to disappoint me already.”

“What if I told you I like horse riding?”

“Ugh.”

“I got into a few bar fights back in my day.”

“Now that’s better,” Q exclaimed, leaning back into his chair and crossing one leg over the other.

“Hmm, I’m not sure I would call it ‘better’, but there was one incident that changed me forever. It was during my academy years, I must’ve been twenty-two or twenty-three, I don’t know. I got into a fight with foreign students, I think they were Nausicaans,” Picard closed his eyes, trying to recall the details from his memory; “What were we fighting over? –I don’t even remember, must’ve been something awfully childish. One of them had a knife and stabbed me pretty hard just below the heart. I was very lucky to have escaped that one alive.”

He paused for a moment, opened his eyes and stared into the fire, a tight smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I distinctly remember looking down at the knife that had cut through my skin, looking up at the sky and laughing until my throat was sore. I think that was the moment I realized how fragile life can be.”

“Jean-Luc Picard, you will never cease to amaze me,” Q whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft, his eyes filled with unreserved awe.

They looked at each other and suddenly Picard knew exactly what it was that had drawn him to Q from the very start. The clarity of the moment almost made him gasp –instead, he smiled kindly and leaned in closer to his friend, placing his glass on the table in front of him.

“Q, are you –do you feel lonely sometimes?”

Q’s eyes snapped shut. He looked relieved, as though he had been waiting for that particular question for a long time. Jean-Luc waited patiently for an answer, staring at the restaurant critic’s relaxed features. His closed eyelids fluttered for a moment, then he squeezed them shut again and sighed.

“It’s getting late,” he said, but made no motion to get up.

“Perhaps it is,” Jean-Luc nodded, slightly disappointed. He had been expecting an answer, but maybe the abrupt change of subject was an answer in itself; “I can walk you home if you want-”

“No I’ll be fine,” Q interrupted as they both got up reluctantly.

They stood facing each other in the quietness of the warm room, eyes locked and bodies wavering between standing absolutely still and shifting towards the door. Then Jean-Luc deliberately walked up to Quentin -feeling as though he was watching himself do it through a stranger’s eyes- and, standing on his tip-toes, placed a light kiss on the corners of the other man’s full lips.

“Good night, Q,” he whispered against a blushing cheek.

He pulled back slightly and then almost immediately plunged back, eyes closed, to press his mouth against Q’s. He felt the taller man’s startled reaction as his body stiffened for a few seconds before melting into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Picard’s waist and pulling him closer. One of Jean-Luc’s hands grabbed Q’s shoulders as he deepened the kiss, the other sliding into his hair and running through it heatedly. Realizing how hasty his enthusiasm must’ve appeared, he stopped himself brusquely and pulled his hands back to his sides, gently breaking their lips apart.

“Kiss me again,” Q moaned against his mouth.

And Jean-Luc did.


End file.
